


Touch

by DemiGoddess



Series: Sanguine Dreams: Rowen [14]
Category: Original Work, Vampire: The Masquerade
Genre: Blood, Caitiff - Freeform, F/F, Gore, Painplay, Sabbat - Freeform, Torture, Tzimisce, vampire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-07 14:32:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19086985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DemiGoddess/pseuds/DemiGoddess





	Touch

Her skin is stretching. It’s not flesh, not hers, but still it pulls and tightens. Those wrong, disgusting, perfect, beautiful fingers remove themselves from within Rowen’s neck and she gasps in anguish. The pain! The young vampire hasn’t been able to feel pain quite like that in decades. But oh the pleasure! No pleasure is the wrong word. It is the utter satisfaction of the need. It is pain without pleasure, but it fills her utterly. It drowns her; fills her past the banks of her being until she floods. Her very self is swept away in the torrent.

Rowen has not led a life that lends itself to poetry. She has never had the head for metaphor or grand philosophical declarations. Yet in this space she can grasp the bleeding void around the edges of her. She indulges herself in the obscurity that comes at the precipice above oblivion, and says those exact words to herself. 

How can the creature across from her,the thing that shapes her so exquisitely, not CARE?!

It cares about something, to be sure. But what possible gem, what wisdom can exist so far past that edge? Nothing. That horrid thing is the very void wrapped in a disemboweled guise, shambling about to grasp at what it’s false skin once sought. It fails to see it has already achieved its goal. So many eyes, yet how blind it is!

Those are thoughts the Caitiff has unconsciously. She will not be able to voice that understanding for a long time. Yet she is absolutely sure of this realization. Her conviction burns cold in her dead chest. The same chest that the thing now molds. She is full again! She is bent, torn, split! 

Don’t stop.


End file.
